


Tossing More Than A Coin

by vands38



Series: Rumours [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Everyone Thinks They're Together, M/M, Outdoor Sex, POV Jaskier, Post-Season/Series 01, Sassy Jaskier, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: There's a rumour around that says Jaskier does a lot more than 'toss a coin' at his Witcher, but is there any truth to it? Meanwhile, Yennefer believes Ciri is in danger and is trying to track Geralt down...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Rumours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595146
Comments: 81
Kudos: 1022





	Tossing More Than A Coin

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so it occurred to me that the slang "toss" is very localised and if you don't know it, it ruins the filthy joke this whole work is based around so just a quick primer: toss = wank/hand job. Okay, we're all set.

The first time Jaskier hears the rumours it’s in some backwater village in Velen. He’s several pints down and several songs in when a local girl - beautiful, busty, pretending to have coin - sidles up to him with a sultry smile and after five minutes of dancing around it, she asks -

“-I think it’s time we retire, don’t you?” with an eyebrow arched towards an upstairs room that he would very much like to visit with her.

“Er,” he says, and he doesn’t mean it like ‘er, maybe not,’ he means it like, ‘er, give me a minute, I got distracted by your rather marvellous breasts,’ but she must assume it’s the former because she suddenly gets very weird very quickly.

“Oh,” she says, and sullenly slips off his lap. “I see.”

Alarm bells start ringing in his head as he sees something in her expression that absolutely should not be there. “Wait,” he calls after her, “You see _what_? What do you see?”

But she shrugs sadly and walks upstairs and he’s left muttering his questions to the last swig of mead.

-

The next time it happens, he’s at a soirée at a diplomat’s house and it’s going swimmingly until the hostess leans over at the end of his most popular song and whispers, “So you and this Witcher…?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, intrigued as to the unspoken question, when the lyre player strikes another string and he’s pulled back into the song.

-

He pants, sweaty and satisfied, as he lies back on the flautist’s bed. Fooling around with a fellow bard is a good way to pass the time but an excellent way to find yourself in the gossip columns which he’d rather avoid. The flautist was… very convincing though.

She lies bare beside him, her bosom rising and falling with every breath, and it’s so captivating that he’s not really even listening when she starts talking about their profession of all things.

“You write about him a lot.”

“Huh?” Jaskier says, finally tearing himself away to look at her eyes.

“The Witcher. Gerald.”

“ _Geralt_ ,” he corrects. “Yeah. So?”

“So you seem to know a lot about him,” she says and looks at him searchingly. "His lovers, his scars..." and then sighs, apparently not finding the answer she was looking for in his expression. “Never mind," she says. "Forget I asked.”

“Asked _what_?” Jaskier says, suddenly incensed as she starts picking up her clothes around them.

“Nothing,” she says, heading for the exit, “Seriously, never mind.”

When she goes, Jaskier stares after her, wide eyed, and then groans in defeat as he falls back against the pillows.

-

It doesn’t take Jaskier long to work out what the unanswered questions were, especially when he visits the city of Novigrad which _happens_ to coincide with a Witcher visit (not Geralt, unfortunately, one of his less savory counterparts) and sees the headline: ‘Tossing More Than a Coin’ which implies - _heavily_ implies - that Jaskier and Geralt had some sort of ‘arrangement’ going on, and further implies that Jaskier ‘the Witcher-favoured bard’ does more than just sing about Witchers. A lot more. A lot, _lot_ , more.

It hurts because Jaskier hasn't even seen or heard from Geralt since he so brutally dismissed him on that mountaintop after the dragon hunt over a year ago. The entire of the Northern Kingdoms seem to be gossiping about their steamy, clandestine, relationship when the reality is much more mundane: Jaskier drove away yet another friend with his unending - and apparently unwelcome - optimism. To think, if Yennefer hadn't intervened and broken his heart, Geralt might have come with him to the coast after all, that they might even have started something like the tabloids claimed... it was a hope that he had revisited many times over the years and now every headline he sees seems like a mocking reminder of the friendship that he had lost.

Whatever the Novigrad Chronicle claims this time, Jaskier never even meets this ‘Eskel’ who is apparently in Novigrad, but rumours are hardy things and now it’s published in the Chronicle it gives more credence to it than ever before. Every performance of ‘Toss a Coin’ now ends in a cacophony of wolf-whistles and jeers and Jaskier, being the dedicated showman he is, starts to play into this, adding a few filthy dance moves, gestures and winks. All publicity is good publicity after all, even if it does break his heart a little.

-

At first, Jaskier loves the attention the rumour brings. People are practically throwing coin at him for songs that are now twenty years old. And as much as it stings to sing about Geralt of Rivia as if he is a fierce, heroic, lover and not the gigantic egotistical prick he is, the crowds seem to eat it up. They almost believe it _too_ much if Jaskier's empty bed is anything to go by. 

After a couple of dry months, this gets a bit tiresome. He expected the rumour to die down but apparently the thought of a bard and a Witcher getting it on appeals to the masses and now on every performance poster in every town boasts the strapline ‘the Witcher-favoured bard’ so that perverted individuals can salivate over what the word ‘favour’ might mean.

The other, unexpected, result of this rumour is that Jaskier is receiving more male attention than ever before. It used to be ladies falling at his feet, but now - damn the Witcher - it’s men, and after a couple of months of celibacy, the idea is a lot more appealing than it used to be. It’s not that Jaskier is entirely uninterested in men, it’s just that, Velen being what it is, men don’t usually reveal themselves as being on the market and so it’s not like he’s had the opportunity. Now, he has opportunities aplenty and what can he say? He’s an opportunist.

-

“Fuck!” Jaskier swears. It’s painful. He didn’t think it would be painful.

“You okay?” his partner asks, rapidly retreating, and, god, he’s pretty. Long, blond, beautiful hair, devastating cheekbones, rough working hands and those soft lips… _god_. He’s beautiful. So his boner really shouldn’t be wilting right now.

“Yeah, of course,” Jaskier says defensively, trying to catch his breath and hoping his partner doesn’t notice the state of affairs. “It’s just… I’m not used to… uh.”

“You haven’t done this before?” he says with a frown. “Your Witcher didn’t…?”

Ah. The rumour. The assumption. Jaskier readies himself for yet another Geralt-interrogation (a Geraltation, if you will).

“Not...exactly,” Jaskier says.

His partner goes wide-eyed, mouth agape, “You’re not saying that _he_ -?!”

Jaskier bursts out laughing at the mere idea of Geralt letting him do that. The legendary monster-slayer willingly fucked by this waif of a bard? Sure, yeah, _Geralt_ would be the bottom in this fictitious relationship.

His partner furrows his brow. “Not that then,” he surmises. “So you just…” he does a gesture that implies a hand job. “Tossed him?” he says with a teasing smile.

That fucking song. He rues the day he wrote that fucking song.

It is, however, a convenient lie. Jaskier nods his head and hopes that the man doesn’t ask for a demonstration.

“Alright. Well. I’ll still give you something new,” and with that devastating smile, lowers his mouth to the bard’s crotch.

-

Jaskier is walking back from the tavern with his ensemble one night, tipsily debating the merits of various folk tunes when his fellow lute player sidles up beside him. A woman. An actual woman taking interest. He wants to throw a _parade_. Never mind the ‘don’t sleep with a fellow bard’ rule, it’s been six months since he laid with a woman and he’s already excitedly planning where to take her when -

“Is it true what they say?” she asks with a playful nudge. “You know, the Witcher’s…” and then her eyes dart down to the bulge in his trousers. “Is it true?”

He wants to sigh, to rolls his eyes, to protest once again that he’s not fucking a Witcher, but unbenowst to him, a blush creeps up on his cheek. He’s heard the rumour. Ten inches, apparently. Good girth. He shakes his head and tries to dismiss the persistent memory of Geralt - naked, and sweaty and fucking an evil sorceress. It doesn’t work. He thinks he actually _does_ know the truth. His blush deepens.

The other musicians slow their pace, clearly keen to hear the answer themselves. Their curious, unblinking eyes suddenly fill him with anger. Why does everyone think they have the right to know the intimacies of their lives? That memory is between him, and Geralt, and Yennefer… and that random elven healer, he supposes, but it’s definitely not theirs.

“How the fuck would I know?” Jaskier blurts, probably harsher than the gentle tease warranted. “I don’t-” he licks his lips, suddenly dry-mouthed. “I don’t know. How could I possibly know that? It’s not like I stand there with a measuring ruler! And even if I _did_ know and I was actually sleeping with him like everyone supposes, what do you think would possess me to tell you such a thing?!”

The lute player laughs and raises her hands defensively and the mocking gesture stings a bit as she backs away. “Sorry,” she says, clearly not sorry in the slightest, “Didn’t mean to hit a nerve-”

“You didn’t,” he defends rapidly. “I’m just saying I’ve never-”

“Hey,” the young, male, definitely gay fife player drawls, “If you’re not fucking him, does that I mean I can?”

“Oh, fuck off!” Jaskier exclaims.

“Definitely a nerve,” the lute player mutters, and Jaskier hates that she’s right.

-

He has a dream that night. It’s that scene in the ruins. Geralt fucking like he’ll die if he doesn’t. But instead of Yennefer beneath him, it’s him. It’s so real he can feel Geralt’s bruising kiss on his lips, can feel the rubble digging into his back, can feel Geralt moving within him, deep and pleasurable.

He wakes up with dirty bedsheets and the ghost of Geralt’s lips still on his and he feels so, so, _alive_.

-

“You know, I’ve always wondered...” a patron asks him one night.

By this point, Jaskier _knows_ what’s coming and rolls his eyes. “Yes?”

“Well,” he asks awkwardly, clearing his throat. “How exactly did you get to travel with Sir Geralt of Rivia?”

Jaskier perks up. Maybe this isn’t a Geraltation after all, maybe this man actually wants to hear about his heroic deeds and epic travels across the lands and seas…

“I mean, what _exactly_ does he get out of your company? He must get something in return, no? Do you give him some sort of, uh, _payment_?”

Jaskier lets his head fall against the ale-soaked table. Loudly. Painfully. But somehow it’s still not as painful as this conversation. A moment later, he comes up with a sigh to look the nosy bugger in the eye. “Are you implying, good sir, that I let a Witcher fuck me up my pretty little bottom just so I can accompany him on his merry way? That the only reason a magnificent man such as Geralt of Rivia could possibly withstand my company is if he were, as you say, ‘getting something’ in return?”

It’s possible, while disparaging the man, that Jaskier had raised his voice a little. His tirade had hit a little too close to home. Geralt _couldn't_ withstand his company, after all. It didn't matter what Jaskier offered, it didn't matter what he tried, at the end of it, Geralt still begged for the gods to take him off his hands as if he were no more than an unwanted pest. Jaskier feels a lump in his throat and swallows it down. The fact that Geralt couldn't withstand his company was the sole reason he was drowning his sorrows in this shitty tavern in the first place. He blinks back his tears and looks around at the stunned patrons in the silent tavern. The man standing before him is flushed beetroot red. Jaskier takes a final swig of ale then grabs his lute and his coin and heads for the door.

“And I’ll have you all know,” he says to the gaping patrons, needing to refute their base assumptions even at the cost of the truth, “that what he gets ‘in return’ is my sparkling wit and less time dealing with you backward, salacious... _turnips_.”

-

“‘Turnips,’ really? That’s your insult of choice?”

Jaskier turns from loading his newly-acquired horse to see Yennefer before him. Her arms are folded, her hair and make up are perfect, her black dress doesn’t have a single speck of mud on it despite them being in the midst of a farming town right now. 

He sighs, and turns back to his horse, reassuring Belle with a loving pat on her beautiful white mane that she has nothing to be jealous of. “I was under pressure, alright? And it’s hard to think of cutting insults after…” he trails off, “you know, I actually don't know how many drinks.” He shakes his head and turns back to her. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Geralt.”

Jaskier looks around them, comically, at the farm boy with a slop bucket and the empty cornfield beyond.

“I mean to say, I _thought_ he was here. He’s clearly not.”

“Clearly. Your djinn must be playing tricks on you if it led you to this wasteland.”

Yennefer sighs deeply, utterly unimpressed. “That's not how it works."

“No? So you just portalled to this random little farming town in Velen because…?”

She shuffles from foot to foot and Jaskier tries not to look too victorious at her annoyed discomfort.

“Look, I haven’t seen him for the best part of a year, alright? More than. Not since the dragon hunt,” he says, putting them both out of their misery.

“You… haven’t?” she asks, surprised, and Jaskier is speechless that even the great Yennefer of Vengerberg has apparently believed the rumours. She frowns and looks deep into his eyes and he gets the distinct impression that she’s seeing a lot more than he wants her to see. “You haven’t,” she concludes evenly.

He sighs, allowing the heavy sorrow to seep into his heart. “No, I haven’t.” He misses him, he realises. He really misses him. He shakes it off and turns away to tend to his horse. “So if you please-”

“I haven’t seen him either.”

His movements halt as he lets that sink in. He knew Yennefer wanted to end things with Geralt while the djinn still tied their fates together but he honestly didn’t believe they could resist the pull. “You haven’t,” he states, mirroring her words, as he turns back to face her.

“No,” she says, and something within him wants to trust her. Perhaps because she looks as miserable as he does about it. "Not since the Battle of Sodden."

"That was...?" Jaskier begins, having only heard snippets about the war on his travels. He shakes his head, remembering the terrifying immortal beings he's dealing with. "Okay, that was you. Of course that was you."

"He found me there. We brought Ciri - his Child Surprise - to Kaer Morhen. But that was a year ago. I visited just now and Vesemir says he's on the Path. I assumed with you."

Jaskier clears his throat, unable to look at her lost expression much longer. “Well I’m sure he’s fine. He’s always fine.”

She nods, and turns away to casually open a portal beside the cow shed. “If you see him, tell him I need to see him. It’s about Ciri. And please do pass on my regards,” she looks him up and down and he feels like a specimen being examined, “In whatever manner you deem appropriate.” Then she winks and steps through the portal and Jaskier is left staring at the empty space dumbfounded.

He turns back to Belle, still stunned, “Did she just _wink_ at me?”

-

Yennefer’s location spell is off by precisely a day because Jaskier isn’t one hour out of the town when he hears rumours of a Witcher heading the other way.

“Dammit, Geralt,” he mutters, and stops Belle in her tracks.

He sits there, motionless, on the highway to Oxenfurt. He could carry on, pretend he didn’t just hear that soldier mutter that familiar name. Geralt won't want to see him in any case; he'd made his position on that very clear. But… Geralt had just had his heart broken when he said all those vile things. It's possible he didn't mean them. It's possible, now that some time has passed, that they can make amends. And Jaskier can’t deny that he wants to see him. If he arrives to Geralt's wrath then at least he can put this whole thing to bed rather than waste any more years living with this twisted hope of reconciliation. 

He sighs, defeated by this own emotions, and turns Belle back towards town. Three hours and fifteen questions later, he finds where Geralt has made camp.

-

The camp is on the edge of some woodland by a small stream, a mile out of town. The fire is lit and Jaskier can see Roach grazing nearby and a solitary figure sat by the fire sharpening a blade, shedding the occasional glint of light as the sword is turned over and over in his hand. It's such a familiar sight that his heart aches with want. He missed Geralt. He missed everything. 

Jaskier sits astride his horse, paralysed with anxiety. He won’t be welcome here. Geralt will say some cutting, hurtful, things, and shoo him back to town. Worse still, he will have heard the rumour and want to stay far away. He should-

“I can hear you overthinking from here, Jaskier,” a gruff voice sounds from the other side of the crackling fire. “Stop immortalising me and get down here.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh at Geralt's nonchalant greeting. He's so overwhelmed with relief when Geralt does not outright reject him that he nearly cries with joy. It's not an apology for what transpired - Geralt doesn't _do_ apologies - but acting like his outburst never happened is probably the best outcome he can hope for. 

Jaskier tries to rein back his overflowing sentiment as he does as he’s told and ties Belle to a nearby tree. His hands are shaking as he does so. It feels like a dream. He has played out this scene so many times in his head - that they would be reunited, that they would still be friends - that the reality seems unreal now.

He’s nervous. His legs wobble with uncertainty as he approaches. There’s butterflies in his stomach. There never used to be. But that damn rumour and that damn dream and the fact he now _knows_ how good stubble feels against his face makes him realise that maybe he did, all along, want a little more…

“Are you going to stand there all day?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier jolts and forces himself to sit on the log beside Geralt - as far away as he can possibly get while still looking casual - and as soon as he’s sat, is handed some sort of stew. He looks down at it sceptically, wondering what sort of monster produced the bobbing bits of meat, and if those are actually potatoes and not some sort of fungi deadly to humans.

“It’s safe, don’t worry,” he grunts. “I bought it from the tavern.”

“Oh thank god,” Jaskier says and eagerly downs the stew, no spoon required.

Sharing food is such a routine act between them that it confirms Geralt's strategy here: no apology, just business like usual. Jaskier can get on board with that. He tries to shake off any lingering resentment and forces any nerves to recede. This only works if both parties play the game. 

He passes the empty bowl back to Geralt, who looks at it with an amused smile, and places it back into his satchel. The smile causes a little somersault but after Geralt's non-apology he feels a little more prepared to handle such things. He fancies a Witcher. That’s _fine_. Really, that puts him within the majority from what he’s witnessed. But he still feels like he needs to address it somehow, like, what if Geralt really has been at Kaer Mohen with Ciri this whole time and hasn’t heard what happened with his song and what if Jaskier says nothing and the next day he insists they walk into town together and…

“Everyone thinks we’re sleeping together,” Jaskier blurts.

Geralt grunts and continues stoking the fire with a stick as if this is all very uninteresting. “Do you want to be?”

Jaskier chokes on an inhale. From anyone else that would be a come-on. From literally anyone else. But Geralt asked it so casually, like it’s just a point of interest; he’s not even _looking_ at him as he asks.

“No?” Jaskier hazards.

Geralt glances his way real quick and then grunts and returns to the fire. Jaskier stares open-mouthed after him. He has the distinct impression that Geralt’s response would have been equally as nonplussed had he answered in the affirmative.

Geralt puts down the makeshift poker and leans away from the fire, stretching his back with a stifled groan. Jaskier dreads to think what kind of new injuries he’s gotten in the long months they’ve been apart.

“Not that I…” Jaskier finds himself speaking.

Geralt looks at him then, _actually_ looks at him, with curiosity.

“I mean, I can’t imagine that you…” he trails off, having no idea how to voice the idea that actually he would be up for it but also doesn’t want to be murdered, or worse, _disowned_ , by mentioning the fact. “I just mean you seem awfully unbothered by the idea,” he says, leaving it to Geralt to interpret if ‘the idea’ is the rumour or act it implies.

Geralt shrugs and looks into the fire. “I long ago stopped concerning myself with what people think of me.”

Jaskier looks over at him thoughtfully. Geralt too could be referring to either. Does he not care about rumours in general? Or does he not care what people think about his sexuality? The moment feels so delicate, during an already delicate reunion, that he doesn’t want to push. Instead, he stretches out his legs by the warm fire and asks if he can accompany him for a few days. (Pretending, of course, that he doesn't stop breathing while he waits for a response.)

“Hmm,” Geralt says, but with a slight uplift which Jaskier has learned is Witcher for ‘yes’. Then he indicates over to Jaskier’s horse. “At least you’ll be able to keep up for once. Since when do you have a horse?”

“Since the idea of us sleeping together became very profitable,” Jaskier jokes and it feels like he’s won the grand tourney when Geralt actually _laughs_.

-

It’s literally the next fucking day that they find themselves in trouble. Jaskier has spent months travelling by himself with not so much a wolf or a bandit in his way, but within literal _hours_ of being in Geralt’s presence, he finds himself surrounded by harpies.

“Why are they even here?” Jaskier squeaks as he dives for cover. “We’re nowhere near the sea.”

“Creatures change habitats when their food sources dry up,” Geralt explains as he shoots an exploding arrow at one of them.

It falls at Jaskier’s feet as he squeaks and runs uphill further into the castle ruins for shelter. Geralt finishes the harpy off with a devastating blow before Jaskier has even moved a foot away.

“Fewer sailors venture to this coast now that the griffin has taken roost on the island.”

Jaskier ducks as another harpy falls beside him. He loves when Geralt talks nerdy, he really does, but he feels like when he’s running for his life he’s not really appreciating it as much as he should be. “Has it occurred to you,” Jaskier asks, while jumping to safety, yet again, “that you could have prevented this by - argh!” he yells as one gets a bite of his arm before Geralt wrestles it to the ground, “-killing the damned griffin in the first place?!”

Geralt grunts as he rolls down the hill wrapped in the talons of the harpy. After a brief struggle, he throws her off and when his sword is in the beast, looks back up at Jaskier and explains, “The griffin is the last of her kind, we may as well let her live out her last days in peace.”

Jaskier throws his arms in the air, “Oh, I see, _now’_ s the time to be a romantic-”

Jaskier doesn’t get to finish his sentence as talons suddenly hook into his vest and launch him upwards. Jaskier hears Geralt scream his name and sees him run towards the ruins but it’s already too late and Jaskier is in the air. He’s been captured by the last harpy.

He closes his eyes as he gets higher and higher and his Witcher gets smaller and smaller. He doesn’t hear Geralt swear but he definitely hears the arrow a moment later as it whooshes past him. “Geralt!” Jaskier screams, “Are you insane?!”

The answer is obviously ‘yes’ as another arrow flies past him and actually hits the harpy in the wing.

“Oh. No,” Jaskier manages to say, before him and the beast, still entangled, start plummeting towards the ground.

He sees the world spinning and spinning below him and he’s sure he’s going to throw up and die horribly impaled on some ancient flagpole, but then, miraculously, the fall begins to take them towards the edge of the ruins, and then, before they can hit the ground _something_ pushes them sideways towards the building. There’s an impact. A big one. And then Jaskier slumps forward.

“Jaskier! Jaskier!”

That voice. He knows that voice. That voice is commanding, and comforting, and… kinda hot. 

“Geralt!” he shouts back with relief but it comes out muffled. He opens his eyes and realises why. His face is pressed into the earthy ground. He groans and tries to move, but he can’t, there’s something big pressing down against him.

Something that is still _moving_.

Jaskier hasn’t even formed the scream before he hears Geralt’s fast, heavy, footsteps, and the harpy is literally pushed off him by the force of his sword.

Jaskier gasps in air, filling his lungs, as he turns to watch Geralt skewer the harpy into the wall from which he had pushed them. Jaskier struggles for breath, wondering how deranged he must be to find the sight so unbelievably attractive as Geralt guts the harpy and its innards stain his shirt with blood. No one should find that attractive. And _yet_.

Geralt drops his sword and runs over to him, blood staining his cheeks as Geralt takes his head in his hands. “Are you alright?” he asks, hands moving all over his body, frantically checking for injuries. “Jaskier? Are you alright?!” he asks with increasing urgency. 

He wants to reassure him that he’s fine, other than a little blood loss and a massive boner, but he doesn’t have the words. Adrenaline is still pumping through him and when he looks into Geralt’s eyes he sees the same burning back at him. Suddenly he doesn’t care if Geralt murders him - because Melitele knows that’s gonna happen sooner or later anyway - because he really, really, doesn’t want to die without knowing what it’s like to kiss him. 

Jaskier surges forward and takes Geralt’s lips between his own. Geralt freezes, just long enough for Jaskier to regret every decision he’s ever made, before his hands twitch against Jaskier’s cheeks and he’s pushing past Jaskier’s lips with his tongue. Jaskier groans at the sudden vindication and at the glorious feel of Geralt’s chapped lips against his own before they fall to the ground in a tangle of lips and limbs.

Geralt hums in appreciation as he frees Jaskier from his breeches and starts stroking him. Jaskier feels movement and is struck with a sudden fear that Geralt will take everything he wants, whether Jaskier is willing or not, before he realises that Geralt has only moved to untuck himself.

Geralt spits and grasps them both in one large hand and it doesn’t take long before seed is spilling between spit and blood.

“Fuck,” Geralt shouts as he comes.

It’s so damned beautiful but also so in character that Jaskier laughs, in relief and joy, as Geralt sags against him. They’ve just fucked, butt naked, in the middle of the day, in an abandoned hill fort, in a graveyard of harpies and yet somehow that feels like it was Geralt's goddamn _apology_. Jaskier laughs in unrestrained joy at the absurd situation. He missed this. Fuck, he missed this.

Geralt cracks one eye open and huffs a laugh at his behaviour. “What’s so funny?”

Jaskier laughs as yet another thought comes to him, “Maybe that a Witcher tossed _me_ for once.”

Geralt grimaces but it doesn’t last for long, his stern face broken by an indulgent smile. “You are unbelievable.”

“In a good way though, right?” Jaskier teases, leaning up to lick a drip of sweat from his face. In that single passionate act, he feels like all the tension between them has dissipated. He can touch Geralt again, he can _tease_ him. 

Geralt shakes his head with a chuckle and a sigh, but instead of disparaging him, just looks at him with an amused, but somehow sad, smile and leans down to press a soft kiss against his lips.

Jaskier lets out a quiet moan at the unexpected moment of tenderness but before he can reciprocate, Geralt is levering himself to standing.

“Come,” he says, “We should go before this hilltop is crawling with ghouls.”

-

That night, Jaskier lies by the fireside, softly strumming his lute and looking to the stars. Beside him, Geralt pretends not to do the same, but his potions have long since lain dormant beside him as he looks to the skies.

Jaskier picks a couple of notes and hums under his breath as another song begins to take shape; one that is far too sentimental for the Witcher to hear. “You know,” he says between notes, “that’s not exactly how I expected that to go.”

“Hmm?”

“When I kissed you,” he says, picking an obscenely tenderhearted chord as he remembers it. “It’s not how I expected you to react.”

“No?” Geralt says, returning to his potions as if to distance himself from this conversation. “What did you expect?”

Jaskier sighs as the music turns rather maudlin. “I figured you’d either call it off - rather gruffly, might I add. I mean, I think there was definitely a possibility of a black eye,” he says with a glance over to his companion.

Geralt tilts his head in agreement which doesn’t bode well.

“Or-” he says, and then finds he doesn’t want to finish the sentence. He was doing so well on the whole Not Being Murdered or Disowned thing.

“Or?”

“Or,” Jaskier sighs, resigned to his fate. “You know, gone the other way. Ravaged me in the middle of the ruins.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier turns to look at him. He doesn’t know how but somehow that “hmm” sounded _sad_.

“Not that I… You wouldn’t...” Jaskier rambles. “I’m glad it happened the way it happened.”

“Hmm,” he says again, but this one sounded more… accepting, for lack of a better word.

They lapse into silence, and Jaskier thinks maybe the conversation is over until Geralt slowly packs away his potions and he hears him inhale several times as if to speak. Jaskier looks at him with curiosity. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen Geralt tongue-tied. “What is it?” he asks gently.

Geralt busies himself with his potions again. “Just that…” he mumbles, so quietly, that Jaskier has to strain to hear, “If you ever did want that, I would… want you to be comfortable. I wouldn’t do it like that.”

Jaskier’s heart warms and for the first time he thinks he might be able to get more from Geralt then just a quick post-battle fumble to erase their misdeeds. Maybe Geralt actually wants something here. Despite himself he smirks at Geralt’s adorable attempt at emotional communication and teases, “You saying you’d only take me if it were in a fancy tavern with a four poster bed and silk sheets?”

It must be the firelight because there’s no way Geralt is blushing. He grunts. “Something like that,” he mutters.

Jaskier has to bite down on his grin. “Who knew you were such a romantic?”

Geralt glares. The scary glare. The one that is meant to make men cower but only makes Jaskier smirk. He really must be deranged.

Deranged. Damn. That reminds him.

Geralt must see the sudden change of expression because he puts down his potions with gravity and asks, “What is it?”

Jaskier sighs and accepts that once he says these damn words, the mood will be gone for good. “Yennefer was looking for you.”

“When? What for? Is Ciri okay?”

Jaskier tries not to let Geralt’s eagerness sullen his mood. He doesn’t succeed. Jaskier shrugs as he tries to remember, “Yesterday. _Shit_. No. Day before yesterday. Fuck. Sorry. She said it was about Ciri but didn’t elaborate. Just…” he waves his hand in the air as if to explain the weirdness of the encounter, “said she needed to see you and wanted me to pass on her regards… in whatever manner I ‘deemed appropriate’. Oh. Oh _no_ ,” he says with realisation. “That is _gross_.” He winces and then looks to Geralt for sympathy but that damn man just looks amused. “I _just_ got that. She totally knew I wanted to fuck you.”

Geralt huffs. “I wouldn't put it past her.”

Jaskier shakes his head and mutters. “God, I hate witches.” After he’s done processing the fact that Yennefer knew and apparently didn’t care, he looks up to study Geralt’s brooding face in the firelight. “So… are we going to find her?”

Geralt shakes his head. Shrugs. “Not much we can do. We’ll start moving towards Ciri, and Yen will find me whenever she wants to find me.”

“Right,” Jaskier says. “Right… so?”

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” Geralt dismisses, grabbing his satchel and moving to stand.

Jaskier nods, accepting the dismissal for what it is, and begins to pack away things himself.

“I, uh,” Geralt starts and Jaskier turns to listen. He looks nervous, almost. A look so unnatural to a Witcher that it gives him chills. Geralt clears his throat and stares back into the dwindling fire. “I’m glad it happened too.”

Jaskier bites his grin as he watches Geralt disappear into the night. Perhaps there is hope for more after all.


End file.
